I'm angry, and in order to avoid saying in person what I want to say (go f*** yourself), I am here.
There was a lot I intended to say to someone, and earlier I thought that it would be therapeutic to write it all down in an email. And I had every intention of it being one of those no holds barred emails--fueled by red wine or vodka that is so clear and direct and raw. But those emails never have the desired effect since it is still Groundhog Day.
I am tired. I am spent. I am blown. I hate fucking dementia and the havoc it has wrought in my life.
For the past two years, I have been offered the "call me if you need me" kind of back up whenever people have learned of the situation, but that is bullshit and they all know it. Because if you really want to offer me help, you would call up and tell me what you intend to do and wait for me to say yes or no. You do not ask a drowning person if they need help. You jump in or you throw out a life preserver.
I am fed up with the Monday morning quarterbacking that goes on when folks offer belated suggestions of what I should be doing. I am beyond tired of the foot-dragging and delays that have prevented any movement forward on anything. I am exhausted by playing multiple roles in this soap opera--the overbearing mother, bad wife, nagging big sister, attentive aunt and devoted daughter. I am frustrated that I am failing and can't get a retest, a do-over or even a fucking break. I'm mad that every time I get to cry, I have to do it by myself while writing a weepy, overly sentimental blog because none of the a$$holes in my life want to deal with how I'm feeling.
But when I get angry, the sky sometimes opens and I get small reprieves. Today I made an appointment to meet with a professional. As someone once told me, prayer is good but people are better. So maybe if I keep praying, I'll get better people.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Sunshine and Rain
Earlier this summer, a local politician was featured in an article about his wife's early onset dementia. Yesterday, he gave a radio interview about her and the ordeal his family has gone through since 2010.
When I first read his story, I could not help but to think about the parallels. The origin of my mother's odd behavior began sometime in 2009, and as it continued, we struggled to come up with answers. I too had to trick her into going to a doctor, eventually tricking her into seeing a neurologist when nothing improved. And just as was the case for Mr. Baker, within 15 minutes after we left the office with a preliminary diagnosis, my mother did not seem to acknowledge that he had just told her that she had dementia.
But unlike Mr. Baker, I have been hiding in plain sight when it comes to discussing my mother...only talking through the blog or to friends. Or not at all. For a time I retreated from this when I felt that I was revealing too much. We had an opportunity to be featured in another radio interview, but we arrived late and left early so that I could avoid an embarassing over-reaction.
I am grateful to Mr. Baker for speaking out because people need to know the private hell it has been these past few years. I came back to write about it because I need to tell others in my own way and on my terms.
I will try not to dwell so much on the negative, but at times, it will be impossible not to...I need a release. It cannot be a release that is tied to physical exercise or drinking or staying busy. I need to have a space where I can scream and cry and question God about this. I need a place to turn after having the same argument with my husband for the 103rd time. I need a refuge from biting my tongue and not telling my family that I am not Jesus yet, I am essentially putting my life on hold so that everyone else can live theirs with minimal inconvenience. I need a space to bitch after someone has said something insensitive or mean to me so that I can resist the urge to tell them where to go. I need a place to bury my disappointments and broken dreams.
Today there is rain. Tomorrow there may be sunshine. I'll try to take each day as I find it.
When I first read his story, I could not help but to think about the parallels. The origin of my mother's odd behavior began sometime in 2009, and as it continued, we struggled to come up with answers. I too had to trick her into going to a doctor, eventually tricking her into seeing a neurologist when nothing improved. And just as was the case for Mr. Baker, within 15 minutes after we left the office with a preliminary diagnosis, my mother did not seem to acknowledge that he had just told her that she had dementia.
But unlike Mr. Baker, I have been hiding in plain sight when it comes to discussing my mother...only talking through the blog or to friends. Or not at all. For a time I retreated from this when I felt that I was revealing too much. We had an opportunity to be featured in another radio interview, but we arrived late and left early so that I could avoid an embarassing over-reaction.
I am grateful to Mr. Baker for speaking out because people need to know the private hell it has been these past few years. I came back to write about it because I need to tell others in my own way and on my terms.
I will try not to dwell so much on the negative, but at times, it will be impossible not to...I need a release. It cannot be a release that is tied to physical exercise or drinking or staying busy. I need to have a space where I can scream and cry and question God about this. I need a place to turn after having the same argument with my husband for the 103rd time. I need a refuge from biting my tongue and not telling my family that I am not Jesus yet, I am essentially putting my life on hold so that everyone else can live theirs with minimal inconvenience. I need a space to bitch after someone has said something insensitive or mean to me so that I can resist the urge to tell them where to go. I need a place to bury my disappointments and broken dreams.
Today there is rain. Tomorrow there may be sunshine. I'll try to take each day as I find it.
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